Undeniably Johnlocked
by Spark Writer
Summary: Sherlock grapples with his feelings for Dr. Watson and creates a plan to win his flatmate's heart. "And John would come in, and they would talk and argue and laugh, and Sherlock would "delete" his feelings. The trouble was, unlike the other information, the feelings always came back." Characters: Sherlock, John, M. Morstan, Mycroft, Mrs. H, Molly, etc. Post-season one.
1. A New Development

**Chapter One**

_A New Development_

Sherlock stared at the glowing screen of his laptop, his thoughts plowing beyond the mundane matters of his website and all the helpless people contacting him, begging for assistance, looking for an easy solution. Yes, his mind bypassed all that and settled on a much more troublesome topic.

John.

Sherlock irritably shut down his laptop, and sat back in the overstuffed armchair he currently occupied. Life had thrown him the first truly-impossible-to-conquer curveball. And it drove him mad. He was so used to using his mental powers to turn ordinary people's problems to dust, but it was different, this. This had more to it than observation and scrutiny and analysis. He wanted so desperately to view this new struggle the way he did everything else—efficiently and mechanically. But feelings are feelings and no amount of clever deductions will decipher them. Sherlock tented his fingertips together in a customary thinking position, listening to the faint splashing of John showering upstairs. He sighed.

His problem was this: he liked John. He really did; he admired John's loyal nature, underlying sensitivity, and ability to keep stone-calm in danger. That was all fine, of course—for two mates to enjoy each other's company—but Sherlock noticed John's subtle attractiveness, the way he wore his jumpers and jeans with an understated _elegance, _and he often lost himself in those hard blue eyes. There was something so appealing to Sherlock about John's warmth and kindness and morals. And for Sherlock, the man so prone to addiction, the man who didn't give self-care a second thought, the man who lived previously in a cold, sterile mind palace, John Watson was a fascinating new study. A study in human qualities, and yes—a study in feelings.

Sherlock stiffened slightly as the splashing of water ceased. There was the sound of the bathroom door clicking open, then shut, and John came downstairs clad in his dressing gown, running a hand through his wet hair.

"Anything in the fridge?" he asked by way of greeting. "It's nearly dinnertime."

Sherlock smirked and looked out the window. "If you're in the mood for the large intestine, then yes, bon appetite."

"Oh, God." John stopped sharply and turned to stare beseechingly at Sherlock. "You're joking."

"I wouldn't joke about an experiment."

John walked over to stand closely before Sherlock, annoyed. "If you—"

"I haven't done anything with it, John." Sherlock folded his long arms and looked up at his flatmate with an even and inscrutable expression. "I rearranged the contents of the refrigerator _before_ adding the intestine; I didn't chuck your jam in the rubbish. Even I'm not that cruel." He smiled slightly, seeing the relief in John's face, and averted his eyes, hating the flush he knew was spreading over his cheekbones.

"Well—good. Thank you." John moved hastily away; Sherlock knew he was embarrassed for being so uncharacteristically accusatory. But no one stands between John Watson and jam.

After gazing at John's retreating figure, Sherlock reached over a stack of papers and grasped his violin with a gentle grip.

"Composed anything new, lately?" asked John, fiddling with the kettle.

_Yes, _thought Sherlock. "No," he answered, calmly.

"Why not?"

"There are more important matters, John."

"Composing helps you think." John looked over with mild concern.

"Well, my thought process hasn't required extra assistance."

John snorted and set the water to boil.

Sherlock thought of the songs he'd composed when John made his annual runs to the supermarket. Covert melodies that he did not intend for John to hear. Each time he heard the doctor coming up the stairs, rustling grocery bags in hand, he'd interrupt his own playing and fling himself onto the sofa, hurrying to form his long limbs into a customary thinking position. And John would come in, and they would talk and argue and laugh, and Sherlock would "delete" his feelings.

The trouble was, unlike the other information, the feelings always came back.

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**Well, there you go...the first installment of a twenty chapter story! I hope you like it; tell me what you thought, I so appreciate it!**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	2. Angelo's

**Chapter Two**

****_Angelo's_

A light dusting of snow had coated London, softening its sharp edges and throwing everything into diffused paleness. It was beautiful and sad and inexplicably ate Sherlock up inside.

He and John sat in their customary window seat in Angelo's restaurant, examining their menus. They needn't have; the menu never changed, but it was their ritual and neither man was one to break it. Sherlock flicked his eyes up at John, allowing himself a private moment to watch his friend. John was studying his menu with an almost childlike concentration—a ghost of a frown between his brows, and the very tip of his tongue visible between his lips. Sherlock instantly read John; knew that what eaten for breakfast, knew that he'd read the London Times that morning based on a faint paper cut, knew that he'd had a headache and knew what pills he'd taken to cure it. Sherlock could do this to anyone, but it wasn't satisfying like this. He was inwardly glad John couldn't do the same; he would inevitably discover some truth about Sherlock that would be better kept in the dark, doors locked.

"What are you getting?" asked John, folding his menu and smiling at Sherlock.

"My usual. And you?"

John's grin widened. "Guess."

It was a challenge, an opportunity to test Sherlock's powers of deduction. Without breaking pace, Sherlock began. "You tend to cycle through your favorite meals in groups of four; we're on the third-to-last night so that would mean steak, yes? Really, John."

John winked. "I didn't realize you were keeping such close track of my gastronomical habits."

Sherlock rolled his eyes to counteract the sudden jolt in his stomach. _God, John, stop smiling like that._

"Are you actually that cold, or are you just keeping your coat on so you can look cool?"

Sherlock sighed. "If it's bothering you…" He shed his tweed trench coat and cast it on the chair beside him.

"Oh—" John frowned at Sherlock's chest. "You've got a loose thread…here." He leaned across the table to pull it off, accidentally meeting Sherlock's eyes as he did so. "What?" he asked, puzzled.

Sherlock met John's eyes with a defiant gaze. "Don't," he said coolly. "I can get it myself."

In a flash, John had flicked the thread from Sherlock's shirt, and sat back in his seat, smirking. "Too late," he chuckled.

Sherlock didn't speak, he was too busy marveling over the fact that he could still feel the echo of John's thumb brushing against him, scorching and soft. He had the impossible urge to pull another thread loose, just to give John a reason to brush it off. He glared at the dancing candle flame until his emotions had dissipated and cool logic reined once more. Order was restored.

John glanced out the window, admiring the snowfall. "Beautiful," he murmured.

"Dull," said Sherlock.

They looked at each other, half-annoyed and half-amused, and suddenly John's lip was twitching and it was too much for Sherlock, and they both lapsed into chuckles.

"That was so bloody characteristic," laughed John. "Me seeing but not observing, and you observing but not seeing!" He shook his head. "Maybe that's why we make a good pair. The optimist and the skeptic."

"The believer and the cynic."

John laughed. "When you were a little kid, did you celebrate Christmas?"

"Of course, John, nearly everyone does."

"No, I mean—did you really get into it? Into the spirit of it?"

"Not as much as I suspect you did." There was a touch of bitterness in Sherlock's tone and John heard it; he did a quick double take and his expression softened.

"Funny, you never struck me as the type to indulge in Christmas cheer."

Sherlock shot John an appraising gaze. "You didn't always know me. There...was a time."

"Yeah?" John gazed warmly at Sherlock. "What happened?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Life got in the way."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Yes, well, it wasn't worth it, anyway," Sherlock replied sharply.

Some undetectable emotion flickered behind John's eyes. "When you're a soldier," he said, quietly, "you see things. And you understand—life _is _bloody too short."

There was a steady brightness in his eyes, a fierce flame of anger. "You haven't seen what I've seen, Sherlock. You don't _appreciate _things."

Sherlock felt his mind go cold, and he fought the overwhelming urge to fire off a scathing retort. He exhaled. "I… I apologize."

John said nothing, simply laid his napkin in his lap and looked down at the tabletop. "All's forgiven," he murmured. "It's all good, long as I'm on this side of the grass."

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**Please REVIEW!**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	3. Over Breakfast

**Chapter Three**

****_Over Breakfast  
_

When Sherlock came into the living room the following morning, John was sitting innocently in his chair, spreading butter over a piece of toast while reading the paper.

"Why do you bother reading that?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to the newspaper and sliding into the seat opposite John. "It's all rubbish and lies."

"It's good to know what the public thinks of you," countered John, wiping butter on a napkin. "Of us."

"Us?"

"Yeah. Practically everyone has been twittering that I've "gone gay" for you. Prats." He popped the remaining bit of toast into his mouth and dusted crumbs from his fingers. "What?" he asked, seeing Sherlock's expression.

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"Nah." John shrugged nonchalantly. "As you said, it's all rubbish."

Sherlock folded his arms sharply across his chest, fearing that John really did view a relationship beyond the platonic as rubbish.

John leaned back and gaged Sherlock's expression. "Does it bother you?"

"Of course not," said Sherlock, purposely avoiding eye contact. "They're idiots."

John nodded the affirmative and tossed the paper onto the sofa, discarding it, casting it away. "It's true. Discouraging, isn't it? To know that you're always the smartest person in the room?"

"It's an inevitability of life," said Sherlock, adopting a long-suffering expression and making John laugh.

They sat in a companionable silence for quite some time, until Sherlock's phone chirped from the pocket of his coat, and their little oasis was shattered.

Sherlock stood and crossed the room in three long strides, plunging one hand into the depths of his pocket and retrieving the mobile phone. He stared at the name for a moment, instantly irritated by its pretentiousness. "It's Mycroft."

John shot him a significant look. "What does he want?"

With one tap of his long finger, Sherlock accessed the message. "Oh God…"

"What?" In an instant John was on his feet, staring at Sherlock with undiluted concern.

"There's been a computer system hacking. He wants to make sure I'm 'not involved.'"

"Christ," breathed John. "Who does he think you are? Some sort of emotionless monster that gets a thrill from breaking into cyber-security?"

Sherlock scrolled through his messages, privately admiring John's adamancy of his being a trustworthy person. "Ever since I over-dosed," Sherlock muttered, "he hasn't fully trusted me. Mycroft is strikingly set in his ways of thinking and I doubt he'll ever let up. It's the way it is, John."

"It's wrong. You're perfectly trustworthy, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up from the glowing screen of his mobile. "Others would disagree."

"When have I ever taken Anderson's opinion into account?"

Sherlock laughed, genuinely, placing his phone on the table and grinning at John. "Witty."

"You're rubbing off on me." John grinned back, and Sherlock saw a faint smear of butter lingering on the corner of his mouth. He felt a pleasant burst of warmth bloom in his stomach, gazing at John's mouth.

Something in Sherlock's unguarded expression must have flustered John; he blushed and hastily looked away. "I'm going to run to the shops," he murmured. "We're out of food."

Sherlock took a step nearer to John, flirting with the idea of smoothly brushing his thumb against John's mouth, removing the butter. He restrained himself with an enduring shred of self-control.

"Don't forget the milk," he said softly, meeting John's eyes. They held each other's gaze for a second past the usual three seconds, and then Sherlock was turning away and stalking off to his bedroom, leaving John to wonder if it was his own imagination accountable for that brief moment of human warmth.

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**To those of you who have favorited, followed and reviewed so far, thank you! This story has a nice momentum going and I don't foresee any writer's block in the close future. Hopefully I'll have one new chapter up each day; every other day if things get extremely busy. Thanks for your continued support! And if you're one that has favorited or followed, would you mind leaving a review? I'd love to know what you think of the style and content, not just a vague, "nice!"**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	4. Maddening Nature of Below-Average Minds

**Chapter Four**

_The Maddening Nature of Below-Average Minds_

"This is stupid."

"No, it's not, Sherlock. Just shut up and help me look."

Against his will, Sherlock bit back the ready retort and walked down the congested department store aisle after John. Everyone around them was in a state of high anticipation; mothers with squealing little children, young couples strolling arm in arm and large groups of friends grinning and taking photos of the holiday décor with their smartphones. In an amazing display of persuasion, John had gotten Sherlock to accompany him on a shopping trip. It was no ordinary shopping trip, either. John felt that Mrs. Hudson should be thanked for all her kindness by a wonderful Christmas present, and he refused to let Sherlock stay at home.

They maneuvered their way through the crowded first floor, staying close together as they went. "What d'you think she'd like?" asked John over his shoulder. "You've got to have some idea, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed. "We'll…get her a laptop, or something. Hers is always acting up."

John stopped abruptly and turned around. "Jesus, Sherlock. That's an expensive gift!" He stumbled to the right, having been jostled by an angry customer. The man shot them a dirty look.

"Why don't you blokes find somewhere else to have your little chat and stop blocking the rest of us?"

Irritated, Sherlock stared the man down. "I perceive very little mental capabilities in you, so I suggest you shut up and continue holiday shopping for the girlfriend you don't have."

John laughed, but quickly covered it with a cough.

The man goggled open mouthed at Sherlock for a split second, then staggered back into the stream of shoppers.

"Well said, Sherlock," chuckled John, patting him on the shoulder.

"Elementary, John."

They were interrupted by a gaggle of teenage girls, clutching their mobiles and beaming. "Mind if we get your autograph?" the shortest one asked, brandishing a crumpled piece of paper and a pen.

"That was amazing, what you said to that man a minute ago! You showed him," another girl said shrilly.

"Can we get a picture of you? Our classmates would never believe it!"

"Solved any cases, lately, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock glanced dryly at John over the bouncing heads of the girls. Quickly coming to the rescue, John pushed his way in front of Sherlock in a defensive stance.

"Alright, you lot, we're a bit busy at the moment, so you'll have to clear off…"

Sighing reluctantly, the young fan club departed, giggling breathlessly and waving at Sherlock until they were swept away in the crush of people.

"That was insane," gasped John, straightening his jacket and checking that he hadn't been pick-pocketed during the pandemonium.

Sherlock flicked his coat collar up, and it brushed familiarly against his cheekbones. "And extremely tedious. I don't seem to possess any patience when it comes to squealing fans. They're swept up in the romanticized image, not the truth of what my job really is."

"How do you manage to use such big words and sound so good doing it?" John flushed, actually hearing what he'd just said, and backpedaled. "I mean, you sound totally normal. If Mycroft used the phrase "extremely tedious" I'd think he was a git, but then I already do."

Sherlock nodded. "I have a tad more humility than my brother."

"Pompous prat."

Sherlock put a gloved hand on the small of John's back and gave him a slight push. "Come on, we need to get out of here before New Year's."

John rolled his eyes. "We're here for Mrs. Hudson, not for us, remember? If you start sulking—

"I'm not sulking, John!"

"Oh, come off it, I know that face."

"Listen, John—if we get out of here within the hour, we can stop for Chinese afterward."

"Oh, fine." John looked helplessly up at the detective. "You had me at Chinese."

* * *

**...Tsk, tsk, Sherlock. Bribery! :) As I've said before, your support means more than you know. Thanks for giving this story audience. Review?**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	5. Mary

**Chapter Five**

_Mary_**  
**

Keeping a steady hand, Sherlock used the glass dropper to transfer a chemical cocktail onto the plastic slide before pressing one eye to the lens and studying the hugely magnified compound components. He was glad to have a morning away from the tiresome bustle of London to sit in the lab at St. Bart's and conduct experiments. It was perfectly quiet and still—John had run out for a few minutes to grab a cup of coffee, leaving the lab all to the Sherlock.

Under normal circumstances, he would have relished the seclusion, but he missed John's steady presence even after seven minutes and twenty-two seconds. It was pathetic.

He pulled away from the microscope, and stared at the opposite wall. Bored. He was bored. Slipping nimbly from his chair, he was into his coat in a flash, and wrapping his scarf snuggly around his neck. He gathered his phone, wallet and—was that Lestrade's wallet? He smirked, knowing he'd be receiving an irate text soon, addressing his "bad pickpocketing habit."

It couldn't be considered a habit, though, not when he only pickpocketed one person. Lestrade was just too much fun to aggravate. He put the two wallets and phone in his pocket and strode out of the lab and down the quiet halls until he reached the main entrance. What he saw outside, standing beside the neighboring coffee shop, was John.

And a woman.

The woman could be considered pretty, Sherlock decided in a strange haze of jealousy, if one was attracted to the strikingly average and ordinary. She had naturally light brown hair that fell to the small of her back, dark eyes, and a heart shaped face. Even from this distance, Sherlock saw the spray of freckles that adorned her nose. And John was smiling at her the way he smiled at women he liked; appealingly and willingly. His spine was straight—Sherlock knew instantly that John was trying to make the most of his rather diminutive height—thought he needn't have. He was already a good four inches taller than the woman to whom he spoke. She, too, was clutching a cup of coffee and laughing about something John had just said. He looked quite pleased with her reaction, and reached out to touch her arm. He was steadying her, but it was also a touch, a caress.

Sherlock exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and strode in John's direction, feeling a grim satisfaction at the thought of interrupting their conversation.

"Hello, John."

"Sherlock!" John's head snapped around, and he did not look unhappy to see his flatmate. The woman smiled at Sherlock, looking a bit confused.

"Oh, Mary, this is my, er, friend, Sherlock Holmes."

"_The _Sherlock Holmes?" Mary's smiled widened. "I admire your work so much, Mr. Holmes! You're extraordinarily brilliant!"

John shot Sherlock a knowing smirk, as if to say, "I know, isn't she amazing?"

Sherlock forced himself to thank her.

"And this," said John, turning to Sherlock, "is Mary. Mary Morstan."

Mary smiled warmly at John, her gaze falling on his lips for a half-second too long, in Sherlock's opinion.

He found himself a bit disgusted with the pair of them. They were just so warm and caring and human. They made an exasperatingly perfect match.

"So," Mary began, "how do you two know each other?"

"We're flatmates," said Sherlock, seeing the brief flicker of surprise flash across her face.

"Ah," she said. "That's fantastic!"

"We solve cases together," explained John. "Actually, he solves them and I blog about it. I don't have much going for me in the deduction department."

"Not true," said Sherlock. "You have your moments."

"Really?" Mary patted John's arm, still beaming. "I don't doubt it."

"And how do you occupy your time?" asked Sherlock.

"Oh, I work at St. Bart's, actually. In the oncology department."

John raised him eyebrows. "Wow. Good for you."

"My mum passed away when I was a little girl, from lung cancer. I made a sort of promise to her memory that I would help others in her situation. And I do."

John smiled.

"I take it you spend a lot of time in the labs?" asked Mary.

Sherlock glanced at John. "A bit."

John stared back, suddenly seeing agitated with Sherlock's looming presence. "Mary," he said softly, turning away from Sherlock, "what do you think about having dinner sometime?"

"The three of us?"

"No, just us. You and me."

Mary went a bit a pink. "I'd love to. How's next Friday?"

"Perfect," said John. "7:30?"

Mary thought for a moment. "Would you mind waiting until 7:45? My niece is having her eighth birthday party and I know it sounds stupid, but I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"It doesn't sound stupid at all," John assured her. "It's sweet."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"Okay, then," said Mary. "Next Friday, 7:45. Ooh, there's a great little restaurant called Angelo's, have you been?"

John grinned. "A few times. That work?"

"Absolutely!" Mary laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm so sorry, John, but I've got to run. There's a meeting with the radiology department." She waved and was off in a flash of long hair and freckles.

John let out a groan.

"What is it?" asked Sherlock.

"Oh my god, Sherlock. She'd flawless."

John was falling. Hard.

* * *

**Okay, so I'm rather fond of this chapter, and plowing away at the later ones, ie. chpts eleven and twelve. PLEASE KEEP REVIEWING! I'm not kidding when I say that reviews are like fuel to me; without them I'm stuck! :) LOVE you all!**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	6. Strategy of the Heart

**Chapter Six**

_ Strategy of the Heart  
_

Jealousy is a funny thing. It is feverish and uncomfortable and makes a person feel a lot smaller than usual. Sulking is one side effect. Stewing is another. For Sherlock, the third symptom was an urgent need to play angry songs on his violin to release some of the pent-up ill feelings. He _should _be happy for John. But he wasn't. This was not the first time he'd fallen for someone who hadn't liked him back. In university, there'd been a few different instances when he had developed feelings for a straight bloke, or worse, liked someone who already had a romantic interest of their own. But now, all those feelings of heartache were magnified tenfold, accompanied by a sweeping sense of injustice. He was always there for John. They were together constantly, they made each other laugh, they'd die for each other.

But they weren't intimate. Not in the way John craved. They never hugged or cuddled on a rainy night, or stroked the other's head when he had a headache. To Sherlock, this all seemed unnecessary, trivial, but he was lying to himself if he said that he'd never imagined what it would feel like to hold John's hand. Nevertheless, John didn't see him that way, that much was obvious, and Sherlock would have to deal it with the inevitable and move on.

Wouldn't he?

At the moment, he was sitting across from John in the living room, each man had his laptop propped on his knees. A thought struck him. He could make a plan. It was a brilliant idea, and the infallibleness of it sent a jolt of endorphins through his bloodstream like the first shot of heroin. Clacking deftly away at the keyboard, he searched under the phrase "How to make a friend develop reciprocal feelings for you," and flicked his gaze down the long list of results. He almost laughed. It seemed that there were quite few desperate people in his very situation, having fallen for someone they couldn't have.

After a lengthy research session punctuated with many cups of tea, Sherlock narrowed the list down to fourteen tips and tricks, in no particular order.

_Optimize your appearance._

_Listen, listen, listen._

_Laugh a lot._

_Be different._

_Physical contact._

_Give the person freedom._

_Practice mirroring strategies._

_Make eye contact._

_Don't appear desperate._

_Be trustworthy._

_Be supportive of their likes and dislikes._

_Compliments._

_Friendly texts._

_Remember things they tell you._

Sherlock saved the list in a file, intoxicated with sudden optimism. There was no better time to begin than the present, so he would begin right now. He decided to start with number twelve on the list, compliments. He studied John for several long moments, at last remembering that it was he who'd made the tea, and that the tea had been quite good.

"John."

"What?" John looked up from his laptop; reluctant to stop whatever it was he'd been doing.

"Thanks for the tea. It was lovely."

"Oh, you're welcome." John's eyes drifted downward, back to the computer screen, then snapped back up. "Wait—did you just thank me? And pay me a compliment?" He narrowed his eyes, concerned. "Are you high?"

Slightly discouraged by this reaction, Sherlock shook his head. "No, John. It's what people say when they're grateful for something or someone."

John kneaded his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Just give me a minute to adjust."

Wounded, Sherlock protested, 'I've thanked you before!"

John smiled a little wickedly. "I think I need this in writing, Sherlock."

Number three on the list was "laugh a lot." So Sherlock swallowed his snappish reply and chuckled instead.

The look of wonder on John's face was well worth the effort.

* * *

**As you can probably tell by now, I'm not particularly a fan of Ms. Morstan. -_- Not that I have anything against her, but rather that Sherlock and John WOULD MAKE SUCH A BETTER FIT! But I must control my emotions, caring is not an advantage. :)**

**Yes it is.  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**

**Reviews make my day. When I see that you're frustrated with the characters, or laughing along side them, I know that you are fully absorbed in the story, and to a writer, there is no greater compliment. :P  
**


	7. New Look on Life

**Chapter Seven**

****_New Look on Life_

The following week swirled past in an onslaught of new ideas, new tactics, and new strategies. Sherlock was full of energy, though he hardly ate, and floated on a tide of optimism and assurance. His current priority was number one on his private list, _Optimize your appearance. _Sherlock was good-looking; he was tall, fit, quite lithe and had lovely eyes to boot. However, he rarely gave his exterior much thought beyond slipping into a button-down and trousers, and donning his trench coat. On weekends, he let his unruly hair do what it liked, often resulting in an unkempt mass of dark curls by the day's end. Now, he spent a bit more time selecting his clothes in the morning and taming his hair. He was particularly fond of his dark purple shirt, and thought it most aesthetically pleasing.

It took John a few days to register the difference, but on the third day of improved appearance, Sherlock strode into the kitchen wearing his purple shirt and dark trousers, hair in place, top two buttons loose. John glanced up, swallowed his tea the wrong way and, eyes streaming, gasped, "What happened to you?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked quickly, his heart squirming.

"You…the shirt. The bloody cheekbones. You could crush me in the looks department any time you please—yet somehow…you look even better than before. If that's possible," John added, sloshing a bit of tea onto the table and leaping up to grab a napkin.

"I—thank you," said Sherlock, smoothly retrieving a dishcloth and wiping up the spill. Still rattled, John came back, clutching a towel.

"Oh, you've already got it. Thanks," he breathed, and sank back into his chair.

Sherlock sat down opposite. They stared at each other.

"So…" Sherlock supposed he would have to be the one to break the silence. "How's Mary?"

"Wha—oh, she's fantastic." John nodded vehemently. "Our date last Friday went really well."

"Glad to hear it, "Sherlock replied, unsure if it was physically possible to keep the sarcasm from slipping out. "When will you be seeing her next?"

"Tonight, actually. We're going to catch a movie."

"Nice," said Sherlock. "Romantic."

John frowned. "Is this bothering you, Sherlock? We're still flatmates and friends and all that."

Sherlock unconsciously flicked a curl from his eyebrow. "I'm not bothered at all, John. I'm tremendously happy for you."

There was a pause.

"Oh. Because sometimes you just seem, I don't know, upset. If something's worrying you, just tell me, alright? I've got a thick skin, Sherlock. I'll listen."

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not at all upset, why would I be?" He waited nervously for John's response.

"No reason," said John, rising and putting his mug in the sink. "No reason at all."

_I don't want to lose you, _thought Sherlock, staring at the back of John's head. _The trouble is, I never had you in the first place._

"Have fun with Mary, tonight," he said quietly, standing up from the table. "I'm off to St. Bart's. Molly's ordered a stock of gangrene infected toes for one of my experiments."

John laughed. "I won't ask."

"Good, well, I'll see you later," Sherlock concluded. "Or perhaps not," he mused, "seeing as you'll be on a date this evening."

"Yeah…" John turned around, leaning against the counter. "Why don't you go do something fun tonight? People will be falling in love right and left with you looking like that."

Sherlock shook his head. "If you get home tonight and don't see me, look on the roof."

"The roof?"

"Yes, I stargaze on clear nights."

"Oh. Okay, then. See you." John watched Sherlock leave with an apologetic expression. He had absolutely nothing to be sorry for, yet he still looked regretful.

Hope stirred the ashes of Sherlock's burning heart.

* * *

**Hello! I hope you enjoyed this update and stay tuned for the upcoming chapter!**

**Review! A word, a sentence, anything! Please?  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	8. Fighting for What's His

**Chapter Eight**

****_Fighting for What's His_

It was a clear night, bright, sharp and beautiful.

Sherlock was standing on the roof of 221B, face tilted toward the sky, eyes full of the world. He felt both incredibly young standing there before the great night sky, yet very old. Perhaps falling in love does that to a person, makes them feel helpless and vulnerable, and yet matures them at a deeper level. Sherlock didn't know. His great mind was so full of unanswered questions.

On the street below, a cab pulled to a stop and—Sherlock confirmed his suspicion—John got out, paid the cabbie, and reached into the cab. Mary appeared, laughing and holding John's hand as though she'd held it all her life. They pair of them disappeared into 221, and Sherlock let out a sigh that was really more of a groan. He decided that he would stay on the roof all night, if it meant not having to see John and Mary together. He crossed his arms adamantly, and chuckled, remembering striking the same position so many years before when Mycroft had insisted that he not insult the primary school bully's intelligence. "But he's an idiot," Sherlock had said, "and better he know now than later."

There was a yell from below, and Sherlock looked down, intrigued. His interest faded to disgust, however, when he saw that it was simply a pair of drunken students, shouting and waving their phones about. He rolled his eyes at the sloppy youth and went back to pondering. He remained in that position for a while, but when a chill wind swept in from the west, he was compelled to leave the roof and return to the flat.

He walked slowly, reluctant to reach the door marked 221B. When he did, he heard the muffled sounds of the telly in the background, and John's laughter. At the risk of seeming cliché, it really was a beautiful sound. He placed a hand on the knob and turned it, standing awkwardly in the doorway. Mary and John were sitting side by side on the sofa, arms round one another. He cleared his throat.

Mary looked around at him and smiled. "Oh, hello! Come on in!"

Finding it terribly insulting to be given permission to enter his own home, Sherlock closed the door with a snap and stalked into the kitchen. John didn't say hello.

He rifled around in the refrigerator for several long minutes, until John cleared his throat loudly and with purpose. Sherlock sighed and silently complied. He sat down at the kitchen table, listening to the mundane conversation ensuing in the living room.

"What's your favorite program, John?" Mary asked, gesturing to the telly.

"It depends," John replied. "Dr. Who isn't bad. What about you?"

"I don't get around to watching it much. I'm more of a reader."

"Yeah? What d'you read?"

"Oh, all kinds of things!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and jammed his right eye to the microscope lens. _Stop allowing your emotions to rule you. Think._

"So, is it exciting—all the mystery solving and adventures and running around?"

Before answering, John glanced pointedly at Sherlock, as if to say _do not ruin this moment for me by butting in, Sherlock._

Sherlock gave him a ghost of a smile. _Try me._

Yeah, it's great, Mary. I love it. Things are never dull, that's for certain."

"I think it's fabulous! Most people never get this sort of opportunity."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Leave it to an average mind to make such his life into a wholesome, moralistic, don't-take-it-for-granted fairytale. He coughed.

John coughed harder.

"Do you two ever get in real danger, John? Or is it a primarily safe career?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. Mary was checking for "insurance." She was making long-term plans around John. _His _John.

"Nah, for the most part we're just as safe as any other Londoners. You can't guarantee physical safety. Not with us, not with anyone. But we take every precaution and do our best to stay out of immediate danger."

"Oh for God's sakes," Sherlock cut in, annoyed. "We're all in immediate danger! It's like saying that a man is safe if he escapes an attacker, but gets in his car, lights a cigarette, and drives away. It's perspective, do you see?"

Mary gaped confusedly at Sherlock, while John shot him a dark look. Relieved to have let off a bit of steam, Sherlock turned back to his microscope and flapped his hands at them. "But do carry on," he said, almost lazily.

John was out of seat in an instant. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked Mary. "Tea? Coffee? A glass of wine?"

"Tea's fine," said Mary. "Anti-cancer properties."

John strode into the kitchen, his face scarlet with suppressed anger. "What are you doing?" he hissed, leaning down in front of Sherlock. "Stop being a prat for one bloody second, will you? If we're bothering you, you'll have to go somewhere else. I live here too, and I'm not leaving."

Rather surprised (impressed) by John's uncharacteristic forcefulness, Sherlock nodded. "I'm sorry."

John recoiled in shock. "Are you actually apologizing? What are you on about now?"

"_Nothing, _John! Just—go make Mary's tea and let me finish this experiment."

"You're not doing anything," John pointed out. "All you've been doing is staring through your microscope at an empty slide."

"So you were watching.

"Yes."

Sherlock smiled innocuously at John. "Mm. I'm good at this game."

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John straightened and stormed off to get the kettle and fill it with water.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Sherlock made a big display of rummaging through the objects on the kitchen table, and, to add effect, muttered about where his bag of harvested skin particles had gotten to.

Mary went pale and John stared up at the ceiling, mouthing rudimentary times tables to master his temper. Sherlock went back to his experiment, smiling.

* * *

**This fic is getting unexpectedly intense! :) I'm loving writing it though, and I love your reviews! You're such a fantastic bunch! Onward! The next chapter celebrates Christmas with John and Sherlock. Stay tuned!**

**-Spark Writer-**


	9. Gifts

**Chapter Nine**

****_Gifts_

Sherlock awoke to a steaming mug on his nightstand and the faint smell of toast drifting in from the kitchen. He rolled over, disgruntled, and stared at the mug for a long moment. What on earth had possessed John to be so kind so early in the morning? Then he remembered.

It was Christmas.

Disentangling himself from the bedclothes in a sudden surge of anticipation, he approached his dresser, quickly yanked the second-to-last drawer open, and pulled out a modestly wrapped parcel. After slipping into his maroon robe, (he decided that only a sheet wasn't modest enough for Christmas morning) he made a quick stop to the loo and critiqued his appearance for a moment. He pushed his hair one way, then the other, and at last parted it on the left as he always did. It suited best of all.

In the living room, John was wearing a truly ghastly jumper and jeans, yet looked inexplicably fabulous. Sherlock smiled a private smile, and thrust his parcel under John's nose.

"Happy Christmas, John," he said simply.

John glanced up in happy surprise. "Thanks, Sherlock, but you didn't have to, you know—"

"There's no need," Sherlock assured him. "I know I didn't have to, and that's the point. I wanted to. So shut up and open it." He tacked a smiled onto the end of the last sentence, hoping he hadn't been too abrasive.

Not offended in the least, John unwrapped the gift, very careful not to tear the paper. At last, he extracted an oatmeal colored lump. He turned it over and shook it out.

"Wow, Sherlock! It's fantastic!" He grinned in satisfaction at the cable-knitted jumper and held it up to himself. "Nice, I can tell it's going to be a perfect fit."

Sherlock sat down in an empty armchair. "I know how much you like your jumpers and because my abilities don't extend to the art of knitting, I had to buy it for you instead."

"It's brilliant," said John. He grinned over at Sherlock. "Thank you."

Sherlock nodded, momentarily self-conscious. "You're welcome," murmured.

John gently folded the jumper and laid it on the rug beside him. He frowned sternly at Sherlock. "Don't think I've forgotten you, now." He was out of his chair and pounding upstairs before Sherlock had time to inhale. He returned downstairs holding a small box. "Here. Open up."

Sherlock complied, and neatly opened the box to reveal—he gasped sharply. "John, you got me a smartphone? This is completely unnecessary and too expensive and—" _And makes me feel like a total idiot for giving you a shapeless lump of yarn, _he finished the sentence in his head.

"Wait!" said John, shaking his head. "Don't start, you haven't heard the story behind it." He grinned. "Since you're always nicking my smartphone, I thought you'd appreciate one of your own. Yours is in black and mine's in silver—that way we won't confuse the two. It cost £220, so don't expect any presents from me for the next ten years." He winked. "Merry Christmas, you git."

Sherlock looked up at John, inexplicably sad. "Thank you, John." And in his mind: _Thank you for not leaving me even though I'm a conceited, arrogant prat. Thank you for picking up the pieces and acting as glue. Thank you for seeing beyond my cold exterior, because it's just my protection mechanism. Thank you for being brilliant and trustworthy and warm. Thank you for looking past the sociopath and seeing the human. You've got to stop being so lovely because I'm falling—_Sherlock cut off his stream of thought with a minute shake of the head. "Thank you," he said again. "And for the coffee."

John shrugged. "Don't get too attached to the idea. It's sort of a once a year event."

Sherlock shook his head, amused. "Breakfast?"

* * *

**Are you cold? Because the next chapter will be heating up a bit. :) Thanks for the continued support; this being my first Johnlock fic, I was a tad nervous as to how people would take it! I owe my permanent smile to all of you. :D**

**Redfeathers66: I wanted to thank you for your review (since I couldn't PM you), so thank you, thank you, thank you, for such a beautiful comment. You have great observations and comprehension of what I'm really trying to write. You're wonderful! **

**-Spark Writer-**


	10. Jealousy is a Blue Eyed Monster

**Chapter 10**

_Jealousy is a Blue Eyed Monster_**  
**

London had a distinct buzz to it; there was the usual excitement that came with bringing in a new year. John was like all the rest-happy and energized, but Sherlock took a more morose view. His mind spun round and round, jumbled with half-formed thoughts and answerless questions and observations that were all upside-down. Everything seemed crooked, out of place.

John tried to coax him out of his bad mood with corny jokes and biscuits and numerous mentions of new cases. Sherlock did not take the bait. Of course John was happy. He was in love with Mary, truly. An hour didn't pass without John uttering Mary's name in conversation and flushing in pleasure at the sound of her name in his mouth. He hummed about the flat and Sherlock once caught him admiring a photograph of himself with Mary, arm in arm, beaming at the camera. These instances were very painful to Sherlock, who felt as though someone had salted his wound, then plunged a knife in and twisted it around.

He was reduced to a moody, gangly, perverse heap, and poor John had no idea what to make of him. Sherlock often gazed at the secret plan on his laptop, his list of commitments to make John his, and tried to pull himself together. But it was plainly impossible for him to walk around as if nothing was wrong when it was, to speak to John like there wasn't a permanent lump in his throat when there was, to go about his business like all was well and good, when nothing could be further from the truth. Limbo was very frustrating for Sherlock, for he was no longer "just friends" with John (your heart isn't supposed to pound wildly when your "friend" walks in the room), nor was he in a romantic relationship with him. It tortured Sherlock, drove him mad, and no one could do a thing to alter it. He often had private little fits of temper, during which he would noisily, passionately scrape his bow over the strings of his violin, playing loudly enough for the whole of Baker Street to hear him. He didn't do this to annoy John—never! Rather, he just needed some way of releasing his fountain of emotions without doing something rash, perhaps even violent. It was times like this that Sherlock found the temptation to revive his old drug addiction more difficult to resist than ever. Nevertheless, after imagining John's hurt, stunned and disappointed expression in his mind's eye, Sherlock shoved that idea into the closet of his heart and would not, would _never_ open the door.

Now, leaning against the window frame and staring darkly down at the snow-covered street, Sherlock submitted to the constant ache, and rubbed his forehead, shockingly tired.

"I have a proposition to make," started John, bustling into the living room behind Sherlock.

Without turning around, Sherlock sighed deeply. "What is it?"

"It's New Year's Eve, Sherlock. Mary and I are going out tonight to celebrate and you're bloody well coming with us."

Sherlock felt a stab of hope. "Why would I do that?" he asked. "It would be terribly intrusive."

"No, it wouldn't," John insisted. "Seriously, Sherlock, we're flatmates. Screw that, we're friends! You're coming along even if it means I have to drag you."

Sherlock turned around then, and stopped, lost for words. For once, John wasn't wearing a jumper. Instead, he wore a steel gray button-down, figure flattering dark jeans, and a new belt. The gray in his shirt emphasized his blue eyes to a striking pitch. And Sherlock? He couldn't look away, not even if a pistol had been held to his head.

"What?" asked John, embarrassed. "Too formal?"

"No," breathed Sherlock. "Perfect."

John went pink; whether from discomfort or pleasure Sherlock couldn't tell. They stood in silence for a few breaths, then Sherlock strode past John and down the hall to his bedroom, deciding that would go along after all. Clad in a two-piece suit, he walked back into the living room to see John already in his jacket and gloves. "Mary's to meet us at the bar," he informed Sherlock, without looking up.

"Right," said Sherlock, brushing against John's shoulder on the way over to retrieve his coat. On reflex, John looked up and cleared his throat.

"You look…nice."

"Thank you." Sherlock straightened his scarf, coat on, and looked expectantly at John. "Shall we get a cab, then?"

"Right, yeah, of course." John shook his head with an apologetic smile. "I was just thinking, sorry."

Sherlock held the door wide and stood aside to let John pass. They pounded down the stairs and into the night, quickly catching a cab and arriving at their destination within ten minutes. The bar was upscale and quite large; a great deal of Londoners were milling about, drinks in hand. Mary was waiting for them at a four-person table. Upon spotted John, she leaped to her feet, blushing like a schoolgirl and hurried over to hug him. "Hi Sherlock!" she said over John's shoulder. Sherlock flashed her something that slightly resembled a smile, if one squinted.

John and Mary lapsed into conversation at supersonic speed, leaving Sherlock isolated and bored. Muttering a perfunctory, "I'll be back in minute," he slipped off and wandered over to a vacant corner where he leaned against the wall and folded his arms. Within minutes, four women had approached him in quick succession, each of them saying hello, hoping for a chat and—most likely—something more. Sherlock had discouraged each of them with a dispassionate, "Not interested," and they'd let him alone. To his surprise, a few blokes had cast him appreciative glances and smiled his way, but Sherlock was as interested in them as he was the women.

His heart was for John and so it would remain.

It was during an irksome battle with a woman that couldn't seem to be dissuaded from flirting with Sherlock that John came strolling up, without Mary this time. Seeing the woman's obvious interest in Sherlock, a shadow crossed his face and he glanced between the two of them with a note of…jealousy?

Sherlock felt a rush of euphoria at the very thought, and ignored the woman to talk to John. "Having a good time?" he asked.

John nodded distractedly, his eyes flickering back to the flirtatious female behind Sherlock. "Er, yeah. I'm just getting Mary a drink. Can I get anything for you?"

Sherlock waved this off. "Thanks, but I don't drink. It would impair my judgment."

John smirked. "Yeah, we can't risk that. You having a good time, Sherlock? You're certainly bringing in the women." Yes, there was definitely a twinge of anger in John's voice.

"What are you implying, John?" Sherlock asked quietly. "That I want them? If that's what you think, you're dead wrong."

John crossed his arms and glared up at Sherlock, his rage coming out of the blue. "Why can't you just stay put, instead of wandering around the bar and breaking people's hearts all over the place?!"

"Seeing as I was completely cut out of your conversation, it seemed tremendously pointless to hang around!"

"I was under the impression that the _three_ of us could talk!"

"You're on a date, John! There's no other way to put it. So frankly, _no_, I didn't have the fortitude to sit and listen to you and Mary whisper sweet nothings into each other's ears and snog!"

"Why would that bother you?" growled John. "Why the bloody hell would that bother _you_?"

"I don't know, John, why does it bother you that the female species takes an interest in me?" Sherlock gave John a long, significant look. "I'll let you work that one out on your own."

He walked away.

"Sherlock, come back! I'm talking to you!"

"Later!" Sherlock did not break pace, and was out the door and into the soothing night air before John could extricate himself from the crush of people. If those dating and relationship websites were at all legitimate, this was progress.

* * *

**...Well?**

**-Spark Writer-**


	11. Compromise

**Chapter Eleven**

_Compromise_**  
**

It occurred to Sherlock later on that his first waking moment of the New Year was John knocking ceaselessly on his bedroom door and calling for him to _please_ come out. Still groggy from a night of very little sleep, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, quite on edge from the events of the previous night. He'd acted on impulse, not with any shred of forethought, and he was reaping the consequences. He felt badly about the whole thing, not least because a bit too much had been said, implied…suggested. By the both of them. And what was he to do, now? Ask John to come in so they could have a brotherly chat? Exchange a platonic hug? Fist bump?

At the last thought, Sherlock let out a growl of frustration at his own sheer idiocy. He was turning into an unrecognizable version of himself, absurd, irrational, and terribly, _terribly_ confused.

"Sherlock," John began again, muffled due to the solid wood door between them, "please will you come out? Or let me in? I want to talk."

Sherlock sighed. No point in prolonging the inevitable. "The door's unlocked," he called.

John made a sound of relief and appeared in the door-frame a moment later. "Sherlock…" He sighed, regret written in his face. "I'm so sorry about last night. I was a bloody fool, and I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me." He sat down heavily on the foot of Sherlock's bed, wearing a most contrite expression.

"What a way to bring in the new year," Sherlock chuckled, looking back up at the ceiling. "The old certainly went out with a bang."

John gave a tentative laugh. "I _am_ sorry," he repeated. "Truly, Sherlock. I don't know why I cracked up right then, but it was pig-headed and stupid."

"John." Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position and cast his flatmate a sad, wry look. "There's no need to apologize when I'm just as sorry as you. Sorrier."

"But you didn't say all the things I said!" John protested. "And I was completely sober!"

"Well, I'm not angry if you aren't." Sherlock smiled at John, and feared he looked silly, childish, young. But he was asking John a very important question—_are we okay? _

John's eyes went a bit dark, then. And Sherlock saw _Him_. _Him_, the hardened soldier who was very adept at restraining and constraining himself for the wellbeing of others, the soldier who would fight for all things important _and_ unimportant, the soldier who fiercely kept himself in check. Fortunately, his face brightened, and he smiled at Sherlock. "Deal." And then— "Are you sure you're getting enough sleep, Sherlock? You look a bit peaky."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, John, really. It's not necessary to pull "army doctor" on me. I'm perfect."

A look of amusement crossed John's face, and he stood up. "Right, good."

"Was Mary angry at you for running off?" Instantly, the mood darkened and Sherlock suddenly regretted asking.

John shrugged, evasive. "She wasn't happy, no. I called her to explain in the cab on my way home. Thanks for having me chase you all over London."

"I did nothing of the sort," Sherlock protested. "I simply went home, John."

"And you proceeded to lock yourself in your room."

"I was tired."

John sighed and closed his eyes.

"Listen, John. It was late, and we were both tired, and frankly I didn't fancy having a row."

"I know," said John. "I know, but I wanted to apologize without you roaring at me from the other side of your bedroom door."

"I didn't _roar._"

"And yet, Mrs. Hudson called to ask if everything was alright. What do you call that?"

"I needed space."

"I _did_ walk away, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's lips twitched. "Yes, you walked away after shouting for ten minutes, _and_ I heard you swearing all the way down the hall."

John blushed.

"It doesn't matter anymore," said Sherlock, pushing his blanket off and standing before John. "I've got to run to the lab this morning, care to come with?"

"Can't," said John, "I really should go see Mary and apologize face to face." He grimaced slightly at the thought.

"She's not the violent type, John," Sherlock added helpfully, seeing his friend's look of distress.

"Funny, Sherlock, very funny." John shook his head, and moved toward the door. Before turning the knob, however, he paused. "Do you—maybe want to eat lunch at Angelo's today? It's been a while."

"Perfect," said Sherlock, not missing a beat. "I'll be there at one."

"Aw, no, 12:30!"

Sherlock smirked. "What, you don't want to wait?"

John reddened. "No, it's not that, it's just…"

"You get hungry at 12:30," finished Sherlock. "Fine, then, 12:45."

"You prat," said John around a huge smile. "Compromise is the key," he chuckled. "And yes, 12:45 works swimmingly."

"Good," said Sherlock.

"Good," echoed John.

"Would you mind stepping out so I can dress?" Sherlock asked, his eyes never leaving John's.

"Right!" John tore his gaze from Sherlock, and fumbled briefly with the doorknob, disappearing into the hall and closing the door behind him. "I'm making eggs," he called.

"Not hungry," Sherlock replied.

"You need to eat!"

"John, I can take care of myself!"

"And I'm not an idiot, Sherlock. Toast?"

* * *

**Aren't they just adorkable? ;) More soon!**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	12. And Life Goes On

**Chapter Twelve**

****_And Life Goes On  
_

A text from Detective Inspector Lestrade could turn a day around; take it from sour to invigorating an instant. Upon receiving the message: _There's been a unusual murder. Come down to the Yard ASAP—GL, _Sherlock closed his laptop with a snap, dove into his coat, whipped his navy scarf round his neck, and bellowed up the stairs to John's room, "John! Hurry, we're going down to Scotland Yard to get information on a new murder case!"

There was a crash from above, and John swore at the top of his lungs.

"Slammed your finger in the drawer again?" asked Sherlock, wryly.

"Yes," said John, appearing at the top of the stairs in his jacket, mobile in hand. "We really should have that fixed."

Since their fight on New Year's Eve, things had gone surprisingly well. They'd gone out for dinner several times, ordered take-away a few times more, and Sherlock had bravely attempted to make John coffee, while John had just as bravely attempted to drink it. Sherlock was coming to the conclusion that the more mundane people act, the more is going on under the surface, and that the alleged normalcy is simply an effort to counteract possible awkwardness. He and John did a lot of that; watching telly and arguing over cross-contamination of severed ears in the fridge, and poking fun at the ever-irritating Anderson. But there were moments when Sherlock was settled innocently at the kitchen table, peering into his microscope, that John would walk in and Sherlock's hands would inexplicably begin to tremble. And other times when the pair of them would be stalking a savage killer through the back-allies of London, and Sherlock would lower his voice to a hushed baritone, telling John Not. To. Make. A. Sound. John's pupils would unquestionably dilate, and he would blush, meeting Sherlock's silver stare with defiance. It was pathetically irresistible to Sherlock, as though John was saying, "That's right, you made me blush. So what? Going to make something of it?"

During these heated occurrences, one man would clear his throat, look away, leave the area, or possibly all three. Usually it was John, but occasionally it was Sherlock, suddenly overwhelmed by John's fantastic _John-ness, _that he had to exit just to control his rapidly beating heart.

John's voice asking Sherlock if they were going to catch a cab yanked Sherlock from his reverie, and he returned to the present with a snap.

"Yes, of course, we'll go right now."

John grinned at Sherlock. Genuinely. "Feels good, doesn't it? Having a new case?"

"It does," Sherlock mused, striding out into the clatter of Baker Street, John beside him. "Nothing like a nice murder to turn things around."

"God, we're so messed up," giggled John. "We actually enjoy this!"

"I don't enjoy the dead bodies," Sherlock remarked, "I mean, what could be more boring than a body, it's a _body_—but the observation, deduction, thinking, analyzing and reasoning that comes with a murder makes it interesting."

"And the running around?" asked John, lightly punching Sherlock's arm.

"That, too," Sherlock agreed with some reluctance. He was suddenly distracted by the exquisite sensation of John's hand making contact with his arm. One could only imagine what it would feel like without the sturdy layer of tweed separating them. The kinetic energy might cause him to spontaneously combust. It was an interesting idea for an experiment, Sherlock decided with a rather devilish smile. He saved it in his Mind Palace for further analysis.

"Come on," he said, wrapping his long fingers round John's wrist and pulling toward the waiting cab. He was trying to work on number five, physical contact.

John responded with a small frown; he stared at Sherlock's hand. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you in the cab," Sherlock replied, sliding in beside John and closing the door. "Scotland Yard," he called to the cabbie. They were off.

It was quiet for a while, then John said, "It's getting a bit hard to date Mary with me being involved in murder cases."

"For God's sakes," Sherlock snorted. "It's not like you're a murderer!"

"No, but with her being in the oncology department and all… Listen, Sherlock, she's trying to save lives, while you and I get a thrill when there's a dead person around. We're on different planets!"

"Maybe you're not right for each other."

"God, Sherlock, don't play psychologist. Of course we're right for each other!" John shot Sherlock a thoroughly mistrustful look, like a little boy whose friend had nicked the last cookie.

"It's a possibility."

"No, it's something you made up."

"I don't _make things up_!"

"Need I remind you of Cluedo?"

"Oh, not that again." Sherlock stared out the window, his heart making a sure descent from his chest to somewhere down around his toes. How could John be so blind as to pick Mary over him? They would never work, that was obvious to Sherlock. He gritted his teeth against a rush of criticism.

"You alright, Sherlock? You look like you're about to pop a vein."

"Fine," muttered Sherlock.

Quiet again.

Yet again, John broke the silence. "We should get you a girlfriend, Sherlock. The four of us would have a lovely time together."

"The four of us being me, a girlfriend, you, and Mary, I presume?"

"Er, yeah."

"I told you before, John. That's not really my area."

"Oh." John looked at Sherlock with unfathomable expression. Sherlock detected traces of curiosity there. "Have you ever—_had _a…?" He trailed away, going a bit pink.

"No," said Sherlock, coolly as ever. "I have not."

"Ever wanted one?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, and looked John square in the eyes.

Fortunately, the innuendo went over John's head, though he went inexplicably redder. "Well, who?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's private," he said at last.

"God, sorry," blurted John, looking down at his knees. "I shouldn't have asked."

"Don't," Sherlock admonished. "It's a perfectly normal question to ask, I'd just rather not answer it."

"It's completely understandable," said John, still addressing his knees.

Sherlock shot John a private, fond look.

…Irresistible.

* * *

**Wow, chapter twelve already! Time flies. If you haven't already figured it out, John was alluding to Sherlock having/wanting a boyfriend. Ha, the irony...xD**

**~Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the lovely reviews! People keep asking why I'm always walking around in such a good mood. All I can say is that I owe it to you, dear people of fanfiction!  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	13. The Milk Dispute

**Chapter Thirteen**

_The Milk Dispute__  
_

The following evening after dinner, John came storming from the kitchen, face a mask of fury. He snatched Sherlock's mobile from his hand and tossed it onto the adjacent sofa. "What the _hell _is _this_?" He brandished an empty milk carton before Sherlock.

"It's a plastic milk carton, John. And I would appreciate it if you wouldn't throw my phone."

"That I bought!" spat John. "Look, this is a carton of milk that I bought _yesterday! _It's already empty!"

"So what? There's no shortage of cows!"

"It's a waste of money to make me keep running to the shops to buy milk that you apparently inhale in one go! It's like you have no self-discipline!"

Angry, Sherlock got to his feet. "What does that matter?"

"It's weird, Sherlock!"

"Well, it's not your business, so please shut up."

John's eyebrows shot up with dangerous speed. "Excuse me?"

"Please. Shut. Up."

John chucked the carton to the floor. "You can't bloody tell me to shut up! I'm an adult, Sherlock!"

"Well you're doing a bang-up job of _not _acting like one!"

"Be quiet!" bellowed John.

"Why are you acting like this?"

"Because it's always me who has to go to the store to buy more milk, me who has to spend the money, me who has to toss your stupid empty milk cartons in the rubbish because you can't be bothered! I'm tired!"

"Well, I have to put up with your string of girlfriends, your habit of leaving jam all over the flat, and your inability to make an intelligent observation. _I'm _tired!"

John clenched his fists tightly, his left hand going perfectly still. "I will not stand here and let you walk all over me just because you're angry that I called you out on something."

"You know those people who lift vehicles off others in a car crash?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "They're nothing compared to me."

John glared back, showing no signs of backing down. They were now chest-to-chest in the living room, and both in danger of being shoved out the nearest window by the other. With a disgusted growl, John pushed past Sherlock and out the door, not even stopping for his coat.

Sherlock waited for the door to slam, then dropped onto the sofa, suffused with an exhaustion that was bone-deep. "Oh, God…" he groaned. He was both angry and devastated, knowing that John would undoubtedly seek refuge with Mary bloody Morstan. He let his head drop heavily into his hands. Five minutes later, Mrs. Hudson called, asking if everything was all right with the two of them. Sherlock called John a rude word and hung up the phone with a bang. Desperate for distraction, he logged on to his computer. The very first thing he saw was The List. He tried ignoring it, but number thirteen, friendly texts, caught his attention.

_I'm sorry about the milk. -SH_

He waited for a good ten minutes, and then—

_I'm sorry for acting like an arse. -JW_

_I'm sorry you acted like one, too. -SH_

_Clever. -JW_

_Will you come home? Or are you with Mary? -SH_

_I'm in the park. -JW_

_Alone? -SH_

_Yes.-JW_

_It's dark, that's a terrible idea! -SH_

_I'm ok. -JW_

_So are you coming? -SH_

_On my way. –JW_

Sherlock's chest expanded slightly, and he had a sudden, brilliant thought.

_Dr. Who at eight? -SH_

_Since when have you liked Dr. Who? -JW_

_I'm supporting your interests. -SH_

_Oh. Thank you! Guess what? -JW_

_What? -SH_

_I'm bringing milk. -JW_

_Brilliant! Thanks. -SH_

_;) –JW_

_B) –SH_

_What the hell is that? –JW_

_Sunglasses. –SH_

_Haha. See you soon. –JW_

_Can't wait. –SH_

Sherlock put his phone aside, thanking the ceiling for that rare moment of divine intervention. Where there was communication, there was hope.

* * *

**Gargh! I hate when they fight! ); Hopefully the text conversation avoided becoming overly corny...xD**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	14. Set Free

**Chapter Fourteen**

_Set Free  
_

"This is ridiculous, John. I shouldn't have to break out my calendar just to sort out the next time we'll be in the flat at the same time."

John sighed and slid his thumb down screen of his phone. "Nope, nope, no…er, wait—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was with shocking will power that he controlled himself from cursing Mary's existence. The more humanistic side of him reasoned that he had no grounds to hate Mary Morstan, but the _I'm-in-love-with-John-Hamish-Watson_ side of him disagreed.

Vehemently.

For the next three weeks John was slammed, and that wasn't counting the "impulse date nights" that Sherlock so despised. They'd be sitting in the flat, arguing over who was to make dinner, when Mary would call and John would be soon be dashing from the flat in a blaze of giddy anticipation. And Sherlock would grumble about the flat until Mrs. Hudson knocked at the door and asked—in a very long-suffering way—if he might quiet down a bit. Then he would stalk off to his room in a fit temperamental rage. If John noticed any of this, he never alluded to it. Sherlock was dreadfully confused. He was _the _greatest detective alive, and even he could not decipher John's mixed messages. It was terribly annoying, frustrating and all together unfair. As of late, John had been having a few minor rows with Mary, though they made up with irritating speed, and eagerly planned their next night out. The rows had been about little things; John forgetting to screw lids back on jars, John forfeiting their quality time for a case, John being too absorbed in his blog.

Sherlock couldn't help but feel a bit satisfied at this. If only John and Mary could fall apart, then he and John could fall together.

"Damn," said John. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but there's no way I can glean any case-time for the next month. Mary's already frustrated with the amount of time I spend blogging."

"Well, if you're not involved in any cases," Sherlock pointed out, "you won't have a thing to blog about."

John sighed and slipped his mobile into his pocket. "Are you angry? You are, aren't you!"

"Not angry, per se. More—frustrated. Discouraged."

John smiled sadly at Sherlock. It was odd, why did people smile when they were sad? "I'll be more firm with Mary about setting aside some free-time for us, from now on. That do?"

"Fine." Grappling with his overwhelming feelings, Sherlock walked dismally to the door and opened it. "Go on, then. Mary awaits."

"Are you sure?" John stared beseechingly into Sherlock's grey eyes. "I don't want my relationship with Mary to stand in the way of our friendship."

"That's…thank you." Sherlock gave John a brief smile and John grinned nervously back. They were both shaky, like schoolboys on the first day of class. "Honestly, John. Go. Enjoy yourself."

John blinked, and looked away. "Okay, then." He made for the door, stopped and spoke, still facing the doorway. "You really are superb, Sherlock. For being a sociopath, you're quite understanding."

Sherlock laughed, but it was a broken laugh. "Go on, then."

"Thank you, Sherlock."

And he was gone.

Sherlock stared at the empty door frame, the perfect parallel to his empty heart. Number six. _Give the person freedom._ Sherlock decided that this piece of advice was utter rubbish, given how miserable he felt following it. However, it was for John.

_If you love someone, set them free. If they come back, they're yours. If they don't, well, they were never yours to begin with. _Sherlock rumpled his hair with a sigh. "God, this is insufferable…"

* * *

**This isn't one of my favorite chapters, so bear with me; the upcoming chapter is twice as long and much better in my opinion, though this chap. does have its point.**

**LOVE all of you! :)  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	15. A Smidgeon of Hope

**Chapter Fifteen**

_A Smidgeon of Hope_

When Sherlock awoke several mornings later, he was met with dead silence. A thin splinter of sun poked through his curtains and stabbed him in the eye. He yanked his sheet from the mattress and wrapped it around his shoulders, feeling a bit more in character than usual. Temperamental, for instance. Recklessly passionate. Definitely not the victim of unrequited love. He strode into the kitchen, made himself a singularly awful cup of coffee—despite the two sugars, and settled into his chair in the sitting room. The lingering detail that tainted his contentment was the knowledge that John would be waking up beside Mary this morning. Sherlock emitted a low growl of frustration, and set his mug down on the side table with vigor. He seized his violin and bow, and was about to burst into his latest composition, when his mobile went off.

"Of course," he rumbled to the room at large. "Mycroft's got to interrupt now, at this particular moment." He reclaimed his phone and looked down, surprised to see a different name there.

John Watson.

He frowned, wondering what it was that had possessed John to text him at 8:00 in the morning, especially when he had just spent the night with his girlfriend. Opening the message, Sherlock read it once, shrugged and put the phone down. A moment later he gasped and snatched his phone up again, the reality of what he'd just read finally hitting him head on.

_Sherlock, I've just had a _really_ bad row with Mary. I'll be home in ten. –JW_

Against his will, Sherlock's insides began to squirm with exhilaration. This was it, this was his way in—the door was finally ajar! He hastened to reply, all animosity for John evaporating in seconds.

_Talk soon. –SH _

He cast a critical eye over this message, finger hovering over the send icon. He made a slight alteration. _Talk soon, John. –SH. _It seemed better, more personal and less uncaring. Sherlock cared bucket loads, but he couldn't for the life of him decide how to express it. And quite honestly, Sherlock hoped John would never know about his efforts. It was mortifying to the bone to be exposed, like that.

He pressed send.

Tossing his phone onto the floor just as John had done during the milk dispute, Sherlock dashed to his room, hurriedly donned his trousers and button-down, tamed his hair, and was back in the sunlit sitting room in a modest three minutes. He was thirty-two pages into a book about obscure diseases when John's footfalls sounded from below. Carefully turning the corner of the page down, he set the book aside and tried to remember what it was he normally looked like when he was relaxed. He thought for a quick moment, then crossed his long arms over his chest. There.

When John came through the door, looking in desperate need of very strong tea and a good sleep, he dropped into the chair opposite Sherlock. "Oh my God," he muttered. "This is a mess. A bloody mess."

"Start from the beginning," Sherlock instructed.

"She asked me to move in with her."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, genuinely surprised. "And you refused, I take it?"

"Obviously, Sherlock."

"It's actually not obvious. Care to elaborate?"

John shot Sherlock a look. _Stop torturing me here. _"I told her I wasn't ready to take that step. Jesus. _Jesus, _we've only known each other for a few months."

"Did you tell her that?"

"Of course."

And she said…?"

"The heart wants what the heart wants."

If John noticed Sherlock's unanticipated blush, he didn't say a word. Sherlock cleared his throat roughly. "And you said…?"

"I don't know, something barmy about not being ready. God, the look on her face when I started yelling…all the stress finally came out and I lost it. I never lose it. What's happening to me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're always calm for everyone else, brave for everyone else, rational for everyone else. Don't!"

"Don't what?"

"Stop being perfect and just yell for a while. It's tremendously stress-relieving."

"For you, maybe. I feel awful."

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. "I thought you and Mary were…happy."

"Well, you thought wrong."

There was a pause. "This is why I don't date," Sherlock murmured. "Far too much trouble."

"I'm about ready to join a monastery, Sherlock."

Sherlock got out of his chair. "Would like a cup of tea? Or…" He gauged John's condition. "Scotch?"

"Tea," groaned John. "And no sugar, mind you."

"How can you stomach your tea and coffee without sugar?"

"How did you live alone for so long? Because you got used to it," John explained.

"Don't attempt rhetorical questions, John."

"How the hell was that rhetorical?"

Sherlock laid a hand on John's shoulder. "Never mind."

John pinkened and went a bit stiff under Sherlock's touch. "What are you doing?" he mumbled.

I—nothing." Sherlock hastened to the kitchen, stomach beating with the wings of a hundred butterflies. It was with shaking hands that he made the tea, and served it John, who grimaced but downed the mug in several gulps.

"God…" he moaned. "I think I'll go have a sleep, now. I didn't get much last night."

Sherlock made a small sound. He hadn't meant for John to hear it, but he'd run out of luck.

"What was that about?"

"I'd just rather not hear about your relations with Mary."

"My _what?_" John spun around and came back, sticking his nose in front of Sherlock's. "Alright, let's get this clear right now: whatever it is that's bothering you and me and Mary isn't my problem, it's yours, so just—suck it up!"

It was evident from John's expression that he regretted what had just been said; his blue eyes went soft with melancholy. He cleared his throat and straightened, gently tugging his empty mug from Sherlock's hand and taking it to the sink. Sherlock had a sudden electrifying epiphany.

"John!"

John turned from the sink. "Yes?"

"You're following through with my instructions, well done!"

John blinked, cocked his head and a furrow appeared between his brows. "Pardon?"

Sherlock skirted the kitchen table, eyes gleaming. "You're finally releasing all that anger! God, doesn't it feel amazing?"

John pulled a face. "Amazing, no. Sorry about…you know, what I just said. I didn't really mean it."

Sherlock smirked at his flatmate. "I forgive you."

"What's the catch?"

"Dishes. For a week."

"A _week_? Bloody hell, Sherlock!"

"Care to make it two?"

"Oh, fine." John met Sherlock's eyes with challenge. "A week, it is."

"And this is why I keep you around," Sherlock chuckled, nudging John so he could reach into a cabinet.

"I'm flattered."

"You should be."

And then something within Sherlock clicked almost imperceptibly into place. Had he...? Oh. He had. He, Sherlock Holmes had just flirted with John Watson. Oh my. He looked quickly at John; the doctor was smiling to himself despite his dreadful lack of sleep.

"Nah," said John. "You keep me around because I'm the only bloke in England who'll put up with severed heads in the fridge and thumbs in the produce bin. I think we've already established that." He grinned at Sherlock, blue eyes meeting blue eyes in a searing split second. "Right, I'm off to have a nap. Don't wake me up unless the flat's on fire, Sherlock."

"That can be arranged."

"Prat."

Sherlock opened his mouth but could not think of an appropriate insult. And funnily enough, he didn't mind.

* * *

**I'm as eager for Johnlock as you are! Hope this ties you over for the time being...=)**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	16. Life or Death

**Chapter Sixteen**

****_Life or Death  
_

Sherlock knew it was unacceptable to listen in on John's phone conversations, but acceptable no longer seemed to apply to him. He was rather good at listening, too—adept at holding his breath for long stretches of time, and not making any sound at all that would alert John of his invisible presence. This was an extremely important call, and Sherlock _must_ hear it.

It was life or death.

"Mary, I've told you before, I'm not ready to move out."

"When _will_ you be, then? Our lives are flying by, John! Don't you think we should just give it a go?"

"Mary… I'm sorry, but this _is_ the way it is. For now. Can you accept that?"

"Actually, no."

"Why?!"

"You just—seem to have this _obsession _with Sherlock Holmes! John, he's all you ever talk about, you refuse to plan our dates on case nights, and you won't move out of his flat!"

"Our flat!" said John, indignant. "And by the way, you just said a lot of offensive things about Sherlock, and I'd appreciate if you apologized."

"_Excuse_ me? You're not hearing me! You need to get your priorities straight if we're going to be together."

"My priorities are just fine," said John. He sighed. "Listen, Mary, I like you, I really, really do, but I need time to think. Can you give me a few days?"

"Whatever, fine."

"Which is it? Whatever or fine?"

"I don't know."

Mary hung up; Sherlock heard the click with a sensation of great relief.

He hung up his own phone after hearing John click off, and leaned back on his bed. He drifted on an ocean of confusion, want and anguish, terrified of the thought that John would agree to move out and, in essence, move on. He balled his hands into taut fists, shocked by the depth of his rash determination. He was now emotionally invested; there would be no turning back. What had once been a timid flicker was now a full blaze. There were times when Sherlock _had_ considered the idea that he could forget his feelings and move forward with John as he always had, purely as friends. But really, that was clearly overdrawing his "nonsensical reserve" for the day. This _thing _for John had a kind of crazy elegance to it, a powerful momentum that kept Sherlock always wanting more, wanting a sign, wanting anything. He could not erase his feelings—perhaps all those years of being starkly mechanical and without love had caught up to him at last, and the consequences would be that when he finally fell in love, it was to be so intense and irretrievable that he would never recover. It would leave scars.

"Beautiful scars," he remarked to the room itself, and rolled over to face the wall, pale and vulnerable in his sentiment.

_Stop. Don't do this. Think. Observe. _ He sighed heavily and sat up, thinking that perhaps he could play his violin, and that perhaps he could play one of John's songs without John ever knowing it was for him. Like a rainbow that passed unnoticed by the world, it wasn't any less real for being unseen.

There came a knock at the door, and John entered without waiting for a reply, looking lovely in a plain shirt and jeans. "You're in a funny mood."

Sherlock frowned. "Excuse me?"

"You forgot to put sugar in your coffee this morning and now you're lounging about in bed."

There was something inexplicably charming about this, the fact that John had observed Sherlock's usual habits and knew them well enough to see when things weren't right. "I'm fine," said Sherlock, lying through the teeth. "More than fine. I'm just savoring my Saturday morning."

"You're always complaining about lazy people. Bloody hypocrite." John grinned, but Sherlock instantly saw that it didn't extend to his eyes. John was struggling with two choices right now just as Sherlock was. He was conflicted.

"What do you want?" asked Sherlock, working very hard to keep his voice even and free of emotion.

"Er, nothing. Just a casual chat, I suppose. But I think you're not in the mood." John gave him a flat smile and retreated.

"Wait," called Sherlock. "Where are you going?"

John shrugged and hovered near the door. "I dunno. Out, I suppose."

"I'll go with," said Sherlock, "Unless, of course, you'd rather be alone."

"No, no, it's fine. But I haven't a clue where I'm going."

"Regent's Park," Sherlock suggested.

"You're suggesting we go to the park in January?"

"What are coats for?"

John rolled his eyes but stepped aside to let Sherlock through the door and into the hall. They strode into the sitting room, matching each other pace for pace (Well, John lagged a bit behind, not being blessed with Sherlock's long legs) and set about finding their outerwear.

After looking in all the usual and unusual places, Sherlock realized that he couldn't find his scarf. Still fussing about under the sofa, he called to John. "Have you seen my—"

"Right here."

Surprised, Sherlock straightened to see John clutching the navy scarf and smiling in satisfaction. "Where was it?"

"Microwave," said John. "You might want to rethink your placing next time. Rather inconvenient spot, don't you think?"

Sherlock tugged the scarf from John, and secured it round his neck. "It could have made an interesting experiment."

"Don't even think about it. Last time you thought something would be an 'interesting experiment,' you burned the skin off your fingers with hydrochloric acid!"

"Minor setback."

"I had to take you to the A&E while you moaned about the loss of good skin cells! We're not going through that, again."

"Well, now I've proved that hydrochloric acid is effective." Sherlock led the way downstairs and into the sunny morning. Baker Street was crawling with pedestrians—people taking advantage of the unusually lovely weather to stroll idly along. They dodged a cantankerous cabbie, "Get out of the way, you bloody crackpots!" to whom Sherlock shot a very dirty look and John echoed with a rude hand gesture. In a much-improved mood, they strode through the Baker Street entrance to Regent's Park, and walked, sometimes in conversation, sometimes in silence, neither of which felt at all uncomfortable. After a long stretch of the latter, Sherlock said, "You do miss the war, don't you."

"A bit."

Sherlock knew this; he saw it in John's unfathomable calmness under pressure, in his thrill for danger, in his white rage for the enemy. It was both admirable, and well—insanely attractive. "Civilian life must be enormously boring."

John laughed. "I don't think you can really call _this _boring. Or civilian life, for that matter. It still feels like war. It's my ideal lifestyle, I suppose."

Sherlock nodded. "Mine, too. That's why I created it."

"Yeah, but you could've been a chemist, or something. You're brilliant at science."

"God, where's the excitement in that?"

"You could—I don't know, come up with new chemical compounds, or something."

Sherlock tweaked his coat collar against the breeze. "Yes, that sounds positively adrenaline-charged."

"Oh, shut up." John shook his head in fond disbelief, and pointed to an empty bench. "Shall we?"

They sat.

A moment later Sherlock noticed two men, hand in hand, chatting and laughing. They were clearly together and clearly enjoying themselves. He scowled a bit, wishing it were he and John holding hands, not some strange blokes in the park. Following Sherlock eyes, John saw the couple, and flushed. "Oh," he said inelegantly. He became suddenly engrossed with his mobile.

"Does that bother you?" asked Sherlock. "Seeing men together?"

"No, why would it?"

"Homophobia is alive and well, John."

"God, no, I think it's fantastic that people can be with whoever they want to be with! It's just that I've seen a lot of guys get hassled in the army for being gay, and I never want for people to see me watching them and think I'm being judgmental. Some of those chaps were my friends."

"Ever get asked out?"

John recoiled. "What, by one of the guys?"

"Yes, obviously."

John grimaced and looked down at his lap. "Must I tell you?"

Sherlock grinned. _Do it._

"Fine, but I'll get revenge later, Sherlock. Yes, one of them did ask me on a date after we returned to England. Turns out, he'd been "hopelessly in love" the entire time and I just hadn't noticed. I turned him down, of course, but I felt pretty bad about it. I actually considered going out with him just once so he wouldn't be hurt." John exhaled and massaged his forehead. "We didn't end on good terms."

Sherlock was quiet for a while, absorbing this new information. "Was the attraction mutual?"

"I'm not gay, Sherlock."

"Everyone seems to think you are."

"I know; it's really getting on my nerves. _Confirmed bachelor. _Jesus."

"It would be fine," said Sherlock, "if you were. I don't care about that sort of thing. Everyone has attractions."

"What the hell are you implying?"

"I doubt you've never been attracted to another man before, John. Most men have." Sherlock was ninety-five percent certain that he was right in saying this; a totally straight man wouldn't entertain jealously when his mate got asked out in front of him, he wouldn't blush, his pupils wouldn't dilate, his pulse wouldn't elevate, he wouldn't swallow his tea the wrong way upon seeing his mate in a certain purple shirt. He wouldn't.

John's face resembled a tomato. "What are you getting at?"

"Nothing." Sherlock sighed dully, seeing that this direction of conversation would get them nowhere. "Never mind, John. It's not important."

John cleared his throat, unsteadily. "Okay, then. Er, what did you think of that last Dr. Who episode?"

Sherlock smirked at this feeble attempt to change the subject. "I thought it was spectacular," he said softly, not looking at John but into him. "And I can't wait," he said slowly, "to watch more."

John swallowed.

Sherlock winked.

* * *

**Hello! These later chapters are so much more fun to write than the earlier ones. Now, our intended goal is just out of reach! This fic should be concluded around Thursday or Friday, and I'm considering writing an epilogue in addition. Here's to our favorite detective and blogger!**

**Cheers,  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	17. Violin Song

**Chapter Seventeen**

****_Violin Song  
_

"I like that," said John, gesturing to the violin which Sherlock cradled. "Play it again."

Sherlock frowned; John didn't normally complement him on his music—in fact, the only composition he'd ever verbally admired was this one. Little he knew that it had been written for him. Settling his violin and readying the bow, Sherlock set about playing his piece to the best and most moving degree he'd ever played it. He wanted John to _know _that every ringing note was for him, that every agonizing build up to a crescendo represented their growing relationship, that each exquisite pause symbolized the silence between heartbeats. He wanted John to hear beyond the music to the message within, and to appreciate it and to reciprocate it.

But that was a lot to ask for one violin melody.

He began gently, then intensified, swaying in time to the music and scraping his bow fiercely over the strings. He did not look at John, for he was afraid to see any judgment there. Instead, he faced the darkened window and played with a lonely beauty that caused more than a few passers-by to stop on the street below and look up, wondering who it was that played so strikingly and despondently all at once. Sherlock was even surprised at himself; never before had he made such sounds with his violin. It was truly an outburst of the soul. He finished with a last astounding note, then silence.

Neither man spoke, and after several moments of quietness, Sherlock laid his violin on his desk and turned to John, not at all prepared for what he saw there.

John was _stricken_. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes were dark with emotion, he was torn to pieces.

Sherlock found this suddenly unbearable. He made as though to leave, but John held up a hand. "Oh my God," he said. "Oh my God. That was…there aren't words."

"So—you liked it, then?"

Sherlock looked at John and John gazed back with a look of broken admiration and wonder. He shook his head. "Dear god in heaven," he whispered. "It was brilliant."

Sherlock blushed, but rather than dashing off to hide this fact, he let the heat spread over his cheekbones, letting John know, letting John _see. _

John was instantly blushing in reply, clearing his throat and getting hastily to his feet. It was all a beautiful blur of hard blue eyes, of heated glances, of beating hearts and frozen minds. And John was close, so perfectly close and Sherlock was pulled inevitably toward him, like a moth to flame.

"No," said Sherlock. He moved back, away from John. "I can't."

John's eyes dropped to the carpet, and Sherlock immediately felt himself fall. Over he went into a storm of knife-sharp pain. What was he saying? What the hell was he saying?

John was biting his lip and staring, scarlet faced, at the floor. He would not look at Sherlock.

It was wrong, it was all horribly wrong. John was supposed to say something to break up the tension, something stupid about needing to call Mary. Something to distract from the pulsating energy that always seemed to erupt between them. Something reasonable, something discouraging, something _straight_. He didn't. And somehow, that was so much harder. Sherlock wanted close the distance between them and take John in; hold him, touch him, feel him.

God, how he wanted that.

However, Sherlock knew as well as he knew everything else that John wasn't really ready. He held the power while poor John was victim to a brutal inner struggle. And if the walls crumbled now, well—nothing would ever be right again.

_All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage._

Sherlock turned his back to John and began the painful walk to his room. Broken heart or not, caring _was _an advantage and this knowledge supplied him with the sufficient amount of hope to carry on.

It would be okay. A Holmes did not go down without a fight.

* * *

**Sad chapter, huh? I'm depressed just reading it over. :( Stay with me, though! Better times are coming!**

**Always,  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	18. Five Words

**Chapter Eighteen**

****_Five Words  
_

John seemed to have developed a severe case of amnesia; he never once brought up the scene in the living room, while Sherlock did a magnificent job of pretending it hadn't happened at all. Life went on as usual, with each man retaining a flatly polite demeanor toward the other and never holding eye contact for more than two seconds. Sherlock spent hours on end gazing at his computer screen, and fitfully turned down new clients—the cases were dreadfully dismal and quite honestly, his mind had been rendered to a useless lump of stupidity. Especially when John was in the room. John often took his laptop and went to a coffee shop to get his work done; he would return to the flat after dark and quietly go about making dinner while unbeknownst to him, Sherlock followed his every move with a silent stare.

Mealtimes had become hideously awkward. They would sit across from each other at the kitchen table; faces blocked by presuming science equipment and tentatively nibble at whatever John had prepared. Neither of them had much appetite, so this span of discomfort lasted for a blessedly short period of time. Sherlock would stand up and say "Thank you," and John would say "Of course," and they would hurriedly clear their dishes and go to opposite ends of the flat. Later on, Sherlock would wander in from his bedroom, asking about a spare flask of formaldehyde, John would mute the television and help Sherlock look for it, and they would keep to their unspoken agreement to stay safely out of arms reach of the other.

It was gracefully dysfunctional.

Tonight, however, was different. After waiting for John until half past eight in the evening, Sherlock gave up and went to the kitchen to prepare dinner himself. He was struggling crossly over a chicken that stubbornly refused to cook, when John came striding into the flat, bustling around in an odd state of nervous triumph.

"You took your time," Sherlock remarked, dropping the entire chicken into the sink in disgust.

"I needed the time." John removed his jacket, and plugged his laptop into the wall outlet. "How was your day?"

Sherlock stared down at the pitiful remains of the waterlogged poultry, and sighed. "It was fine, I suppose. A bit dull, though."

"Well, that's good," conceded John. "Nothing out of the ordinary, then."

"Not even anything good."

A brief pause followed Sherlock's remark, then John walked over to join him at the sink. "What the hell have you done to that chicken?"

"It wasn't roasting properly."

John shook his head. "Never mind, we can order take away."

"Fine."

"Right," said John. "Good, I'll order."

Sherlock brushed noiselessly past him and sat down in his chair by the fire. He glanced at his violin; the instrument had not been moved from its spot on the desk and looked forlorn for lack of use. He scowled at it.

A short while later, John hung up the phone and settled down on the sofa. "We're having—"

"Chinese," Sherlock interrupted. "I heard."

John looked up, concerned. "That okay?"

"Yes, John, of course it's okay." Sherlock's lips twitched in an uncontrolled smile.

John's eyes flickered. "Oh, I meant to tell you—Molly says hi."

"You saw her when?"

"I stopped at the lab to pick up your eyeball samples. Disgusting, Sherlock."

"They're fascinating!"

"Mm, call it what you like. Revolting."

"Must I remind you that you're a doctor?"

John frowned. "That doesn't mean I enjoy looking at random body parts."

"No, but you shouldn't be so squeamish, either."

"_Who_ unclogged the toilet?"

Sherlock gave John a heated look.

John raised his eyebrows. "My point exactly."

For several tense moments, the only sound in the flat was that of the crackling fire and distant sirens from somewhere in the city. A question was rearing inside Sherlock and escaped his lips without permission. "Why _were _you gone so long?"

John straightened. "Yeah, I was going to tell you…"

"Tell me."

John's eyes took on a fiery quality as he opened his mouth to speak. "I broke up with Mary. I told her that I wouldn't jeopardize our friendship for her so-called 'priorities.'"

There was a millisecond when Sherlock forgot how to breathe. In all truth, he didn't quite know how to respond to this desperately desired piece of information. He'd wanted it with all his being, but now that it was here, he realized it alone hadn't shifted the awkwardness or the conflicted feelings. Had he mistakenly assumed that it was _only_ Mary who had caused all those problems? Perhaps falling in love was simply like that. Ravenous but unable to eat, hot, cold, uncomfortable, constantly turned on, full of hope and fervor, with spells of exhausting depression that left Sherlock breathless.

In an impressive display of self-control, he pulled himself together and folded his shaking hands in his lap. "Was she angry?" he asked.

John thought for a moment. "Yes and no. She was angry because she couldn't believe I was putting a friendship before a relationship."

"We are a relationship," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yeah, but you know what I mean. She _was_ glad that I'd been straight with her. Honest, you know."

Sherlock nodded. Most of his energy was currently devoted to ignoring the endearing look of hope on John's face. Was it at all possible that John harbored mutual feelings for him? His brain spun though explanation after explanation, sign after sign—The purple shirt and John spilling his tea, the marvelous Christmas gift, John's jealousy on New Year's Eve, his frequent blushes and the violin song and his heated glances growing longer and longer and…

"What are you going to do now?"

This question surprised John. "Er, what d'you mean?"

"Well, here you are. Was it worth losing your girlfriend over?"

"Yes," said John simply.

Sherlock's stomach rolled against his ribs; he was surprised sparks didn't erupt there. "That's…that's—good," he murmured.

John got off the sofa and sank onto the carpet beside Sherlock's armchair. "Look at it this way," he said quietly. "The best relationships are probably those rooted in friendship. My brain couldn't hold a candle to yours, but I'm smart enough to see, er—" He frowned. "_Observe_, rather, that most people don't get a crack at friendship like ours. To hell with anyone who thinks it's acceptable to toss in the rubbish."

_Damn. _Another moment had come along in which Sherlock could completely imagine himself kissing John. _Don't. Think of anything else: eyeball specimens, microscopes, your new book "127 Unusual Causes of Death," dead bodies— _ His mind came to a grinding halt and simply _refused _to assist him. He forced himself to turn ninety degrees to the right and look at John.

"I'm impressed," he said. "That was prolific."

John leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair. "I'll bet you any amount of money that you couldn't have made an observation like that."

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock retaliated, leaning a bit closer. They were nose to nose with only the arm of the chair between them.

"Yeah?" John propped his chin on his hand. "I think you're full of it."

"You've barely scratched the surface." Sherlock let his eyes drop down to John's chest. "And you've buttoned your shirt wrong, by the way."

He stood up, and walked to his desk, smiling at John's muttered swears.

"Liar!" he called. "My shirt's fine!"

"Sorry," said Sherlock. "Must've been the angle…"

"Shut up," said John, but judging his tone of voice, he just as well could have said, "You're brilliant."

Sherlock lifted his phone from a stack of paper and glanced at it. "Oh look, Lestrade's sent a text."

Eagerly, John scrambled off the floor and hurried over. "What does it say?"

"There's been a murder downtown. A particularly perplexing one, apparently." He threw John a sidelong glance. "What do you say? Shall we?"

"Hell, yes," said John, with that endlessly attractive look of steely calm. He tossed Sherlock his coat and gloves. "It feels good not having to tell Mary where I am every time there's a case. Independent, you know."

"Yes, exactly," said Sherlock. "It's like being on fire."

John took hold of Sherlock's collar and practically tossed him onto the landing. "Let's go," he commanded, locking the door behind them.

"You've missed this, haven't you?" Sherlock grinned and dashed down the stairs two at a time. "So have I."

John chuckled devilishly and swung the door open to the outside world. "Enough talk. Let's move!"

* * *

**So close! xD**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	19. Pulse

**Chapter Nineteen **

_Pulse_**  
**

Upon reaching the scene of the murder, Sherlock's mind jumped into action and began immaculately gathering details for further use. _Man, about sixty years of age, suspicious rash on the lower neck—left side—damp socks, dry shoes, no visible wounds, not married._

He knelt down on the cement and peered at the rash. Strange. His thoughts were jolted by laughter; he looked up and saw John and Lestrade giggling over something. He frowned, feeling a stab of possessiveness. And, to add to the jolly mood, none other than Anderson came striding up, wearing a smirk so broad it was a wonder he didn't need stiches.

"Not interested," said Sherlock, by way of greeting.

"We've already figured out his cause of death," Anderson said smugly. "Allergic reaction."

"Allergic reaction to what, exactly?" Sherlock straightened. "Your excessive use of hair gel?"

Anderson narrowed his eyes. "He'd just eaten, so—"

"So you idiots instantly assumed that the rash was connected to that event? It had nothing to do with his death, Anderson. Nothing." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John watching Anderson with a frown. Muttering something to Lestrade, he headed in Sherlock's direction.

"What have you discovered so far?" he asked Sherlock. "Anderson," he said curtly.

Sherlock opened his mouth, an impressive array of possibilities about to spill forth, but glancing over John's head, he saw a most unwelcome sight. "Oh, God…"

John snapped around, following Sherlock's gaze. "What the hell is Mycroft doing here, Sherlock?"

Pushing a protesting Anderson aside, Sherlock strode over to his brother, bristling. "Mycroft! A word."

They walked into the shade of an alley. "What are you doing here?"

"It just so happens," Mycroft began calmly, "that the dead man was one of my colleagues."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Come now, you and I both know that you could care less if _I _dropped dead, much less a distant coworker! What are you really here for?"

Mycroft stared at the sky that stretched above them. "Not true," he said lightly. "I would investigate your cause of death before burial."

"Don't bother."

"When did it happen?"

"What are you talking about?"

Mycroft smirked, if possible, a bit more widely than Anderson. "You know exactly to what I'm alluding."

"Actually, no, I don't—and if I did, I'm sure it would confirm your stupidity."

Ignoring this personal slight, Mycroft glanced pointedly at a spot behind Sherlock. Turning to look, he saw John kneeling by the body, checking for a pulse and generally ignoring Anderson.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "What?"

"You haven't been able to take your eyes off him since you arrived. He gazes after your every move; you both redden and can't sustain eye contact for more than a second. Sherlock," he said, dryly, "One would need a rather sharp knife to cut through the haze of lust surrounding you."

"Are you insinuating that we're…together?"

"Are you denying it?"

"Obviously," Sherlock snapped. "Are you through wasting my time?"

Mycroft flashed him an impeccable gloating smile. "I had an inkling."

Sherlock rolled his eyes skyward. "Oh dear God, here we go…"

"You hadn't maintained one friendship through your entire growing up, Sherlock, but you met John Watson and became a transformed human being." There was an irritating touch of sarcasm in Mycroft's voice that made Sherlock want to strangle him. "You don't like anyone, you don't approve of anyone—you can't even tolerate me. However, you put up with Dr. Watson's flaws, and imperfections and annoying human inconsistencies. What might we deduce about that?"

Sherlock stared his elder brother down with a look that scorched. His heart was crashing wildly in his chest; he was seconds away from being exposed.

"Incidentally," Mycroft continued, "it's not as though John's got it easy, either. He has _you _to put up with."

"Shut up."

"Your childish behaviors exhaust me." Mycroft folded his arms and looked squarely at Sherlock. "I'm merely saying that whoever you are—and whoever you want—doesn't make any difference to me."

"Oh, don't pull 'caring older brother.'"

"Good, because you won't see again for a _long_ time." Mycroft's broad smirk returned.

If looks could kill, Mycroft would be lying in a pathetic heap on the ground, forever unconscious to the world. Alternately humiliated, furious, and—actually a bit amused, Sherlock brushed past his brother and reunited with the scene of the crime.

From his spot beside the body, John looked up in relief upon Sherlock's return. "What did Mycroft want?"

"He has a night off, so he took it upon himself to arrive here and make my life hell."

"Ah," said John. "You told him off, then?"

Sherlock chuckled darkly.

"I can't figure out this man's cause of death. It's weird; it almost seems like he died of natural causes."

"You checked for a pulse?"

"Of course."

"In the right spot?"

"Of course, Sherlock! I'm an army doctor!"

Sherlock steeled his courage and held out an arm.

"What are you doing?"

"Take mine."

"I—_what_?"

"Take my pulse."

"Why?"

"Even the most seasoned doctors benefit from practice, John."

Putting on an expression of patient weariness, John gently took Sherlock's hand into his own, and slid his thumb along Sherlock's wrist, waiting.

"There," he said softly, finding the subtle throbbing at last. "Can you feel it?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, a thrill of warmth radiating from John's fingers on his arm. "How many beats per minute?"

John thought for several seconds. "I'd say about one-hundred and ten. You're going a bit fast, there." He smiled and (rather reluctantly) released Sherlock's hand. "Erm, we should get working."

"Aren't we?"

* * *

**Ack! That took ages to write...hope you enjoyed Mycroft. :D**

**I can't believe this story is drawing to an end. But, as Mylia11 would say, an end for a beginning. ;-)  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	20. Hearts Collide

**Chapter Twenty**

_Hearts Collide_**  
**

Never before had Sherlock been plagued with such consuming insomnia. No sooner did he drift off into a restless dream that he woke again with a heavy heart, an aching one. All his thoughts and desires and hopes and fears had been boiled down to one pathetically simple statement: He was in love with John. And there had to be a way to tell him, a way for Sherlock to make his intentions clear, because his heart was breaking over it in the most stupidly beautiful way.

After an agonizing stretch of time, he freed himself from his blankets and pulled on his blue dressing gown, striding softly into the hall. Silence. He wandered gloomily into the kitchen and flicked on a light, throwing the sitting room into even sharper darkness. He glared at the science equipment on the table, shoved some of it aside, and sat down.

What was to become of him? He was terribly confused; was or wasn't John attracted to him? Had John ended it with Mary to be with Sherlock? Did he think of Sherlock in platonic terms only? If he'd lived all his life dating women, would he be disgusted at the thought of being with a man? Had he ever doubted his sexuality? Did he see Sherlock as a cold, mechanic sociopath? No, Sherlock knew the answer to the last question. John saw Sherlock for what he was—an annoying, unpredictable, insufferable git with tremendous potential to be a good person. _That _was precisely why Sherlock kept John around. And why he had slowly, irretrievably fallen in love with him. _God. _

Glancing miserably about for anything of distraction, his eyes fell on the ever-growing stack of dirty plates. With a groan, he got out of his seat and set to the arduous task of dishwashing. Only moments later, John padded softly into the room, drawn no doubt by the muffled clanking of dishware. Sherlock was blushing before John even said a word; he didn't turn and continued scrubbing with a dogged persistence.

"Sherlock." There was a warm significance in those words that weakened Sherlock at the knees. He exhaled, gathered his wits about him, and turned to face John.

Something had changed between them—a shift brought on by many fights, moments of sweetness, and a change of heart. It felt strange, as though they were actors playing each other on stage. Awkward and tentative. Sherlock was suddenly seized with an appalling sense of injustice; he had been waiting all along for _the _moment to expose his feelings for John, the _perfect_ moment. But perfect hadn't come. And staring into John's all overwhelming blue eyes; Sherlock realized that he no longer cared. This moment was perfect in all its imperfections, and that was enough.

It always had been.

He opened his mouth, heart on the tip of his tongue, but John closed the distance between them in two strides and looked fiercely into Sherlock's eyes. "You. Are. _Brilliant_. And I'm a total arse for not noticing it sooner."

The world came to a screeching, glorious halt. And Sherlock's old criticisms flew away, up with the birds. He had the strange sense of being upside down and enjoying it. Before his mind could get twisted up in logic as it always did, he spoke. "I didn't mean to fall in love," he began. "But I did. And _you, _you weren't supposed to make fall in love with you, so I believe we both broke the rules." He tried to swallow the lump in his throat out of existence, but it stuck there, relentless. "I'm always on guard with the rest of the world, but with you, I know it's no good." He smiled with a wry sadness. "You're an idiot, John, but you're not stupid. You always saw past my moods and tantrums and discrepancies. You never once called me a freak. And that, that unfailing _loyalty_ was completely brilliant and infinitely attractive." Sherlock took a great gulp of air after that revealing outburst and watched the heat consume John's face. "I want things to work between us because sometimes a heart can't afford to be 'just friends,' and I just couldn't keep this in any longer!"

"It was really quite terrifying," said John, "to realize that I was falling for you."

"_What_?"

"You're a bit out of my league, for one thing." The heavy atmosphere lightened and warmth swelled somewhere near Sherlock's heart. "And somehow, you managed to successfully unseat me from my original sexuality. Bit scary, yeah?"

"But you—you and Mary—and being straight and me being a man…I don't understand."

"I don't, either. I admire you and respect you and half the time I'm a soldier on _your_ battlefield, and I don't know—I just woke up one day and loved you. It was just was_._ Mary and I didn't work because my heart wasn't in it, because my relationship with her was only prolonging reality and Jesus, I think it took less courage to invade Afghanistan than it did to tell you how I feel." John's blush deepened as he sought to sort out his racing emotions.

In past years, Sherlock had always attributed "love" to hormones and endorphins, but it would be an insult to compare this feeling to invisible chemicals in the blood stream. It _did_ somewhat smite his powers of deduction, but when it came to love, a clever person turned into a rather stupid one. "I'm not perfect," said Sherlock, with a desperate sort of sadness. "I'll annoy you and piss you off and say stupid things and take it all back, but I'm hopelessly yours. For as long as you want it…if you want it."

"I want it, Sherlock. So much."

And John was laying a warm palm on Sherlock's cheekbone and pulling him close; it seemed the most natural next step to kiss, especially when all words had become superfluous. The small things made it beautiful, like the fact that John's height forced him to stand on tiptoe, and that he tugged the dish from Sherlock's fingers as their lips collided in a bittersweet blaze. The distant sound of the plate clattering to the floor became white noise; all Sherlock felt was John—on him, around him, with him. Only when Sherlock became dangerously close to passing out from lack of oxygen did he pull away, blushing and staring at John's chest. "What?" he asked, seeing John's flash of amusement.

"Nope, definitely not straight," John chuckled.

Sherlock smiled a bit mischievously, and kissed him again, praying that it would be the second of many kisses, of ruffled hair and flushed cheeks, of heated conversations and hearts bursting. Lightening had struck.

And so began the perfect storm.

* * *

**I hope you found this accurate and imaginative; I nearly killed myself writing it! :) I can't believe I'm at the end of this story looking back...if only I could go back and begin it all again.**

**Here's to Johnlock and earhats and all things Sherlock! Cheers!  
**

**Ever yours,  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**

**I'm considering a sequel...  
**


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